


The Science of Art

by Voodooling



Series: The Science of Art [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Artist AU, Artist Sherlock, Artist!Sherlock, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-14 05:11:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voodooling/pseuds/Voodooling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles/oneshots for my Artist!Sherlock AU. Comes with illustrations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Science of Art

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted this series on Tumblr: http://voodooling.tumblr.com/tagged/artist!sherlock

  
  
\----  


  
“Can I help you sir?”  
“Ah, Harry’s been drinking again I see.”  
“E-excuse me?!”  
John stared up incredulously at the man currently emptying the shelf of all its 24x36” canvases. Said canvases littered the floor around John’s feet.  
“Harriet, the manager. You are not a normal employee, since you are neither a broke young art student nor an old fogy who talks too much like the rest of the workers here, so manager. You must be close to Harry to be allowed to manage the store for her at such short notice, so you are close to her. Thus, Harry is probably picking up her drinking habits again and needs you to do her job for her. No, she most definitely picked it back up. I’m never wrong.”  
… Incredible.  
John watched as the man continued to search through the shelf, mouth agape. His body was halfway into the shelf, muttering to himself and occasionally chucking a canvas to the floor behind him.

“That ladder you’re using says staff only.” Says John  
“Excellent deduction, we’ll make a detective of you yet.”  
“What exactly are you looking for?”  
An audible sigh could be heard amidst the ongoing chaos.  
“William, one of yours – well, Harry’s – employees likes to hide the highest quality canvases at the back of the shelves. Things always ship here on Wednesdays, and William works on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. He can never afford a canvas until his paycheck at the end of the week, so he hides the best ones for himself at the back. Obviously, I want them for myself. Ah! Here’s the one. Perfectly gessoed, exactly 90 degree corners-”  
“Brilliant!”  
At this, the man finally emerged from the shelf, another canvas in his hands, and John finally got a good look at him. Dark, curly hair, pale skin, cheekbones-

The man immediately dropped his canvas when he made eye contact with John. He jumped down from the ladder and before John could openly gawk at the way the man had hopped down from there – it was pretty damn high – said man lunged forward, grabbing John’s face in his hands.  
“That’s not what they usually say.”  
John watched, bewildered, as the man turned John’s face this way and that. He finally let go and stepped back, looking John up and down.  
“Wha-what do they usually say?”  
“Piss off.”  
“Really? That’s not very nice.” John shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unsure what to do as the man started circling around him.  
“Afghanistan or Iraq?”  
“Excuse me?”  
“Your posture and your haircut says military. While you were spluttering about you moved your arms, your tan does not extend above your wrist, so you’ve been abroad but not sunbathing. From the sound of your approach you had a limp, but currently you are standing up perfectly straight, meaning your leg injury isn’t physical but psychosomatic. Psychosomatic means the circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic - wounded in action then. If wounded in action, sun tanning, then Afghanistan or Iraq.”  
“… Brilliant!”  
Sherlock finally stopped in front of John, an eyebrow raised.  
“You know you do that out loud?”  
“Er… Sorry? And you got all that from observation?!”  
“It’s important for what I do. I need to observe to capture my subjects.” The man grinned. “Anyways, come along, John.” He started to walk away, the canvas now forgotten.  
“Wait, how do you know my name?” The man stopped and turned back around. He lifted his hand and reached out to poke at something on John’s chest. John looked down.  
His name tag.  
Right.  
“Anyways.” The man begins to walk away again, signaling John to follow. He walked into the brushed aisle, and began to rummage through the oil brushes. “How would you like to model for me?”

  


  


“Me? Model for you?”  
“Yes, that’s what I said. Do keep up, John.”  
“But… Why?”  
“You have the bone structure I’m currently looking for. Your military physique, the way you carry yourself, your bone structure! Most of the models we get at the studio tend to be curvaceous ladies and lean old marathon men. I’ve been wanting to study someone like you.” The man stopped rummaging through the mess of brushes, and then turned to look at John. “And that bone structure!”  
John watched as Sherlock moved on to the paints section, once again throwing things this way and that.  
“You’re making a mess!”  
The man scoffed before unscrewing one of the paints, squirting a bit of it on to his finger.  
“Hey! You can’t do that-“  
And the man promptly smeared some on to John’s left cheek. He stepped back, and beamed.  
“Perfect hue! I cannot wait to paint those eyes!”  
John stuttered for a second before the statement fully processed in his mind.  
“I never agreed to model for you!”  
“Nonsense, you need the money. Obviously, you are going to accept my offer eventually.” The man grabbed a shopping basket and dumped all of his things into it.  
“I don’t even know your name!” shouted John as the man walked towards the exit.  
“Come to 221 Baker Street tomorrow after work.” The man opened the door, and then looked back.  
“The name’s Sherlock Holmes.” Then he winked and was gone.

John stood there, perplexed at what just happened. Then dawned on him.  
Sherlock didn’t pay for his supplies.  
He left, basket and all.  
Bugger. 


End file.
